It, for she was very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn

spinner; so, at eight years old she began. She learnt a year,

and could not bear it; and Mrs. Morland, who did not insist on her

daughters being accomplished in spite of incapacity or distaste,

allowed her to leave off. The day which dismissed the music-master

was one of the happiest of Catherine's life. Her taste for drawing

was not superior; though whenever she could obtain the outside of

a letter from her mother or seize upon any other odd piece of paper,

she did what she could in that way, by drawing houses and trees,

hens and chickens, all very much like one another. Writing and

accounts she was taught by her father; French by her mother: her

proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her

lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable

character! -- for with all these symptoms of profligacy at ten

years old, she had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom

stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little

ones, with few interruptions of tyranny; she was moreover noisy

and wild, hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so

well in the world as rolling down the green slope at the back of

the house.

Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were

mending; she began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion

Improved, her features were softened by plumpness and colour, her

eyes gained more animation, and her figure more consequence. Her

love of dirt gave way to an inclination for finery, and she grew

clean as she grew smart; she had now the pleasure of sometimes

hearing her father and mother remark on her personal improvement.

"Catherine grows quite a good-looking girl -- she is almost pretty

today," were words which caught her ears now and then; and how

welcome were the sounds! To look almost pretty is an acquisition

of higher delight to a girl who has been looking plain the first

fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever

receive.

Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children

everything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in

lying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters

were inevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very

wonderful that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about

her, should prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and

running about the country at the age of fourteen, to books -- or

at least books of information -- for, provided that nothing like

useful knowledge could be gained from them, provided they were

all story and no reflection, she had never any objection to books

at all. But from fifteen to seventeen she was in training for a

heroine; she read all such works as heroines must read to supply

their memories with those quotations which are so serviceable and

so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.

From Pope, she learnt to censure those who

"bear about the mockery of woe."

From Gray, that

"Many a flower is born to blush unseen,

"And waste its fragrance on the desert air."

From Thompson, that --

"It is a delightful task

"To teach the young idea how to shoot."

And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information --

amongst the rest, that --

"Trifles light as air,

"Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,

"As proofs of Holy Writ."

That

"The poor beetle, which we tread upon,

"In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great

"As when a giant dies."

And that a young woman in love always looks --

"like Patience on a monument

"Smiling at Grief."

So far her improvement was sufficient -- and in many other points she

came on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets,

she brought herself to read them; and though there seemed no

chance of her throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on

the pianoforte, of her own composition, she could listen to other

people's performance with very little fatigue. Her greatest

deficiency was in the pencil -- she had no notion of drawing --

not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover's profile, that

she might be detected in the design. There she fell miserably

short of the true heroic height. At present she did not know her

own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached the

age of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could

call forth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion,

and without having excited even any admiration but what was very

moderate and very transient. This was strange indeed! But strange

things may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly

searched out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no --

not even a baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance

who had reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door

-- not one young man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no

ward, and the squire of the parish no children.

But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty

surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will

happen to throw a hero in her way.

Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton,

the village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to

Bath for the benefit of a gouty constitution -- and his lady, a

good-humoured woman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that

if adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she

must seek them abroad, invited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs.

Morland were all compliance, and Catherine all happiness.

CHAPTER 2

In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland's

personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all

the difficulties and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath,

it may be stated, for the reader's more certain information, lest

the following pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of

what her character is meant to be, that her heart was affectionate;

her disposition cheerful and open, without conceit or affectation

of any kind -- her manners just removed from the awkwardness and

shyness of a girl; her person pleasing, and, when in good looks,

pretty -- and her mind about as ignorant and uninformed as the

female mind at seventeen usually is.

When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.

Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand

alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this

terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown

her in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and

advice of the most important and applicable nature must of course

flow from her wise lips in their parting conference in her closet.

Cautions against the violence of such noblemen and baronets as

delight in forcing young ladies away to some remote farm-house,

must, at such a moment, relieve the fulness of her heart. Who

would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew so little of lords

and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their general

mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to

her daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined

to the following points. "I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap

yourself up very warm about the throat, when you come from the

rooms at night; and I wish you would try to keep some account of

the money you spend; I will give you this little book on purpose. "

Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility

will reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as

she can?), must from situation be at this time the intimate friend

and confidante of her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she

neither insisted on Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted

her promise of transmitting the character of every new acquaintance,

nor a detail of every interesting conversation that Bath might

produce. Everything indeed relative to this important journey was

done, on the part of the Morlands, with a degree of moderation and

composure, which seemed rather consistent with the common feelings

of common life, than with the refined susceptibilities, the tender

emotions which the first separation of a heroine from her family

ought always to excite. Her father, instead of giving her an

unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an hundred pounds

bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and promised

her more when she wanted it.

Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and

the journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and

uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them,

nor one lucky overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more

alarming occurred than a fear, on Mrs. Allen's side, of having once

left her clogs behind her at an inn, and that fortunately proved

to be groundless.

They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight -- her eyes were

here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking

environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted

them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy

already.

They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.

It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that

the reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will

hereafter tend to promote the general distress of the work, and

how she will, probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all

the desperate wretchedness of which a last volume is capable --

whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy -- whether by

intercepting her letters, ruining her character, or turning her

out of doors.

Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society

can raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in

the world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had

neither beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of

a gentlewoman, a great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and

a trifling turn of mind were all that could account for her being

the choice of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one

respect she was admirably fitted to introduce a young lady into

public, being as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything

herself as any young lady could be. Dress was her passion. She

had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our heroine's entree